


Où s'en va ce gai berger?

by thesparklingone



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Estinien gets into mild trouble with lube again, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Holiday Fic Exchange, Holidays, M/M, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28449105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesparklingone/pseuds/thesparklingone
Summary: He cleared his throat. “I have no idea what to get Aymeric for Starlight.”She arched one of her fine blond eyebrows. “And I take it you think I can help you with this?” At Estinien’s nod, she shook her head. “You have known him longer than I.”“Aye, but… please tell me it does not strike you as beyond the realm of possibility that he’s the worst person in all Eorzea to shop for.”To Estinien’s surprise, Lucia laughed. “I can imagine.” Her green eyes twinkled. “Something along the lines of, ‘Oh, you need not go to such trouble on my account,’ or a similarly useless response when asked directly?”
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 16
Kudos: 61





	Où s'en va ce gai berger?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eemamminy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eemamminy/gifts).



> For my sweet Secret Santa, eemamminy! The prompt was for mushy fluff, and I sincerely hope it fits the bill. Happy Starlight and Heavensturn! ♥

In their bedroom, on top of the old oakwood dresser that stood in between two tall, stately windows, could be found Aymeric de Borel’s jewelry box. ‘Twas as fine an object as one might expect of a nobleman’s home, functional yet ornate, its lid inlaid with mother-of-pearl and semi-precious stones in a pattern to form the crest of House Borel and polished to a soft, glowing sheen by the touch of at least half a dozen of its previous lords. Estinien would be the first to admit that in all the years that he had known Aymeric, he had barely ever given the thing a second glance, let alone spared for it a thought. However, here he found himself, staring down at it, and not for the first time in recent weeks.

He was, he knew, brooding over the upcoming Starlight holiday and the fact that he had absolutely no idea what to gift his lover. So, once again, he had made the rounds of Aymeric’s things, hoping against futile hope that something of them—anything of them—would trigger inspiration. The familiar shelves of books offered no insight; Estinien knew that Aymeric had precious little time to read for pleasure anymore. The gift of a fine shirt or the like was also an option that he had considered, but Aymeric had all the garments he needed and was the type to wear a grand total of about four different outfits—modest in style and impeccably tailored, of course—in naught but some variation of black, gray, white, or Borel blue, anyway. Beyond that, Estinien’s ideas grew more desperate and ridiculous. Another chess set? There were three already. More music for the piano he hardly ever played? A waste. The frustration of it all was starting to grate. None of it was right.

The jewelry box, however, continued to offer some promise, though he could not yet say exactly what. Raising the lid, Estinien once more hoped for an idea to form as he cast his eyes over the neat rows of rings nestled in velvet, as if he hadn’t already done so a hundred times. Much as with his clothing, Aymeric hardly ever significantly varied his jewelry, and the same familiar onyx ear cuff and aquamarine pendant earring were nearly always in their customary places on his left ear. Sometimes he’d swap the pendant for a more prudent flat stud when training or deployed in the field, but rarely did he wear his inherited family rings, and when he did, it was usually for some sort of special occasion.

Estinien sighed. He suspected the reason that he continued to seek out the elegant box on top of the dresser and its contents had everything to do with the images his mind conjured whenever he saw those shining little bands, gaudy as some of them nonetheless were. The way gold and silver circlets could glitter as they slipped onto long, graceful fingers… the way those fingers might nimbly hold the slender stem of a wine glass, or firmly grasp the hilt of a sword…

…Or… other… things…

Estinien’s cheeks flushed ever so slightly as his daydreams inevitably turned unchaste. Well, it was far from the first naughty thought he’d ever had of Aymeric. He ran his own fingertips over the tops of several of the rings in the box, frowning at those set with bulky crests or cabochons. No mystery why Aymeric never wore those; none of them felt remotely like his sleek elegance. A far simpler golden band—beautifully but subtly decorated in exquisite inlaid silver tracery—caught Estinien’s eye and he plucked it from among the others. Aye, this one felt true to Aymeric’s spirit, unlike those other, garish things.

He turned it over in his hands, admiring its glint and glitter, the pleasing weight of it in his palm. It reminded him, actually, of Handeloup’s wedding band, usually hidden beneath his uniform’s gloves during his normal workday. A moon or so ago he and his wife had celebrated their tenth anniversary and of course Estinien and Aymeric had been invited to the party. Normally Estinien wasn’t one for such things but it had turned out to be a fine evening, both Handeloup and his wife beaming with happiness, and their little daughter—Estinien had no idea how old she was now—clearly having a ball of her own. During the vow renewal the happy couple had symbolically re-gifted each other their rings, flashing on their fingers as they pledged before Halone their continuing devotion once more.

Absently, lost in his meandering memories, Estinien found himself sliding Aymeric’s ring onto his own finger. It was only when he felt the cool touch of metal against the warmth of his skin did he look down, blinking, and notice that he had—completely unconsciously—placed it on the third finger of his left hand.

“Ser Estinien!”

The voice of Tiraux, Aymeric’s steward, accompanied by a sharp rap on the bedroom door, nearly sent him jumping out of his own skin. Cursing under his breath, Estinien tugged on the ring he’d unintentionally donned…

…and discovered it stuck.

He stared at the infuriating little bangle and pulled harder, but the damn thing absolutely did not want to return back over the bump of his knuckle.

“Ser Estinien, are you in there?” Tiraux called again.

“Er—aye!” Estinien answered, casting about wildly for—for what? There was no way he could loosen the ring in the next half second and the thought of Tiraux catching him trying on Aymeric’s jewelry was _beyond_ mortifying, so he simply slammed shut the lid of the box and shoved his hands into his pockets.

And not a moment too soon.

“Ah, I wondered where you had gone off to,” the old steward said cheerfully as he opened the door. “I have but just now received word from a page dispatched from the House of Lords with the message that Lord Aymeric shall be late returning this eve.” Tiraux smiled. “Not an unexpected turn of events, of course, but he wished to let you know you are free to take your supper without him if you are hungry.”

“I’m happy to wait,” Estinien replied.

“So I had hazarded, but it seemed prudent to be certain. I shall inform Madame Tausette. Until later, Ser Estinien.” Tiraux inclined his head and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Estinien huffed with relief. Now, he just had to figure out how to get rid of this bloody ring. Frowning, he held his hand up before him and examined it first from the back, then from the palm, annoyed and mildly impressed he’d even managed to get it onto his finger in the first place, because, very clearly, it was not going to come off on its own. What to do?

There was oil in the kitchens, but there was no way he could get at it without someone noticing, so that was right out. But, here in their room, they did have plenty of…

His eyes darted toward the bedside table. As embarrassing as it was to admit… it would probably work. After all, he knew from personal experience that their personal lubricant was, indeed, lubricating.

He retrieved the little jar from the drawer and unscrewed the lid, scooping out a dollop and smearing it on his ring finger, doing his best to work some of it under the band. After that, with some patient twists and gritting of his teeth, he did manage to wrest Aymeric’s ring off his finger. Free at last, he glared at the offending little thing as if it were somehow at fault for the fact that he’d put it on. With a sigh, he fetched a handkerchief and thoroughly cleaned it before returning it to its place within the jewelry box. What to do? He was no closer to solving the problem of what to get Aymeric for Starlight, and had naught but a sore knuckle to show for his efforts. Much as he hated to admit it, he needed help, and there was really only one obvious person to ask.

  
* * * * *

  
Estinien rapped sharply on the door to Lucia’s office at the Congregation.

“Come in,” replied her familiar voice. She raised her head from her work as he entered. “Ser Estinien. What brings you here today?”

He grimaced as he shut the door behind him. “How many times do I have to tell you to not call me ‘ser,’ Lucia?”

“At least one more, ‘twould seem,” she replied. She leaned back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap in a manner disarmingly reminiscent of her commanding officer. “Ser Aymeric is at the House of Lords today, but I would assume that you know that.”

“Aye,” Estinien said. “’Tis you I came to see.”

“Is that so? How may I thus be of service?”

Estinien shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. He hated discussing personal things with anyone who wasn’t Aymeric—and sometimes even then—but, well, he was here for a reason. While he hesitated, Lucia watched him with a consummately impassive yet somehow entirely devastating expression on her face. No wonder she made such a good First Commander.

He cleared his throat. “I have no idea what to get Aymeric for Starlight.”

She arched one of her fine blond eyebrows. “And I take it you think I can help you with this?” At Estinien’s nod, she shook her head. “You have known him longer than I.”

“Aye, but… please tell me it does not strike you as beyond the realm of possibility that he’s the worst person in all Eorzea to shop for.”

To Estinien’s surprise, Lucia laughed. “I can imagine.” Her green eyes twinkled. “Something along the lines of, ‘Oh, you need not go to such trouble on my account,’ or a similarly useless response when asked directly?”

“ _Exactly,”_ Estinien replied. “By the Fury it drives me mad. I think he thinks he’s being helpful by not being demanding, but…” he trailed off. “I was hoping you might have some suggestions?” He groped around wildly for some kind of idea, and his eyes fell to the mess of reports, quills, and inkwells on her desk. Ah, Aymeric’s was ever like that, too. “More pen nibs, maybe?”

Lucia gave him an incredulous look. “Pen nibs, Estinien, really? How relentlessly practical, even for you.”

Estinien threw up his hands, hoping to distract her from the distinct blush he could just _feel_ creeping across his face. “Why do you think I’m here asking for help? I’ve gone ‘round and ‘round on this, I’ll have you know!” He began to pace back and forth before Lucia’s desk. “What am I supposed to get a man who can easily buy himself anything he wants, and who doesn’t really want anything, anyway?”

“’Tis true that Ser Aymeric’s wants do tend to be less materialistic than most,” Lucia agreed. “Peace and prosperity for Ishgard, goodwill toward all mankind.” She threw Estinien a knowing look. “A certain dragoon to come home to.”

That comment finished the job her earlier quip had started, and Estinien flushed rolanberry red. ‘Twas not that he was ashamed of his relationship with Aymeric, never that, ‘twas just simply… well, that was very personal.

Once again, the image of Handeloup and his wife, holding hands before their anniversary altar, beaming like rays of summer sunshine, crept into his head. Estinien paused in his pacing, frowning.

“Hmph,” he said.

“I fear I am of little help, Estinien,” Lucia said, shrugging helplessly. “Though if something springs to mind, I shall be sure to let you know.”

Estinien sighed. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Outside, a winter wind bore down through Ishgard’s winding walkways, sharp as a lance point. Estinien looped his scarf more tightly around his neck as he trudged back to the Borel manor, lost in thought. It wasn’t quite yet time to panic, some weeks still remained until Starlight, enough time even to commission a custom gift, if only he could figure out what the blasted thing should be.

He huffed to himself. _Pen nibs._ What an idiot he was.

The question remained, as ever: what did Aymeric want? Lucia’s assessment was accurate, as usual. Aymeric’s true wants were almost universally of the intangible sort, and Estinien was committed to helping him achieve them in what ways he could—by being an ambassador of sorts, for one, between Ishgard and the dragons, even when the work took him away to Dravania for weeks on end. But that was not a gift for Starlight, not something that could be wrapped up and placed beneath a decorated tree. That was the work of a lifetime, and it awaited both him and Aymeric, forevermore.

So perhaps the real question became: what did he wish to get for Aymeric? When he considered it, for some reason, he kept thinking of Handeloup’s anniversary party. Which was just bizarre, really.

He snorted, and shook his head. Well, he’d just have to keep at it. He’d come up with something eventually. He hoped.

  
* * * * *

  
That evening, after dinner—and after Estinien had forcibly banished any work-related activities Aymeric might have been tempted to continue by threatening to throw the sheaf of parliamentary reports into the fire should he so much as glance in its direction—the two of them sat side-by-side on the sofa in the cozy parlor, sharing a blanket and a pot of tea. Their silence was comfortable, the only sounds the steady crack of the burning logs in the hearth and the occasional _prrp_ from Cassetoi, Aymeric’s surly old cat, curled up on the armchair cushion.

Cup drained, Aymeric set it back in its saucer on the table and leaned to rest his head on Estinien’s shoulder. Estinien reached to take Aymeric’s hand in his, turning to kiss him softly on the crown of his head. It was bothering him more than he wished to admit how hung up on this whole Starlight gift thing he’d become. He worried that Aymeric had long since found something for him, and of course it would be perfect, whatever it may be. Insecurity rarely plagued Ishgard’s last Azure Dragoon, but he also knew he wasn’t the most demonstrative of partners, and the honeyed words that seemed to fall effortlessly from Aymeric’s lips nearly always eluded his own. He dearly wished for something truly special to gift his knight, something that he would treasure, that would always bring a smile to his handsome face.

“Did you hurt yourself today, my dear?” Aymeric asked. “Your knuckles are looking a bit red and swollen.”

“Er,” Estinien began. “…Aye, I grazed my hand on the door frame earlier.” He tried to sound nonchalant. “Forgot about it, honestly.”

“Too minor an injury for such an esteemed dragoon to notice, no doubt.” Aymeric shifted to face him, a boyish twinkle in his sky-blue eyes, then lifted Estinien’s hand to his lips and brushed a kiss to the back of his fingers. “Though I daresay it shall heal faster now.”

Estinien snorted. “Sod off, Aymeric. You’re worse than an old auntie.”

“And yet, you do not seem eager to be free of me.” The mischievous look remained on Aymeric’s face. He turned Estinien’s hand over and softly kissed his palm, letting his lips linger lightly against the calloused skin. Estinien shivered the whole way from his scalp to his toes. Aymeric noticed his reaction—invoking it had undoubtedly been intentional—and laughed, leaning forward to kiss him on the lips. How strange it was, Estinien often thought, that for all he feared losing himself again, as he had to Nidhogg, he never hesitated to do so in one of Aymeric’s kisses.

“Ah, Estinien,” Aymeric murmured, drawing away. “I do love you so.”

“I love you too,” he replied. The words sometimes yet felt stiff and awkward in his mouth, self-consciousness making him want to fidget in his seat like a little boy. Still, he knew how much it meant to Aymeric to hear it aloud, so he forced himself to say it. The radiant smile he received in response made the effort more than worth it. Nobody had a smile like Aymeric’s, and to know it was all for him… well, ‘twas a feeling not unlike that of a mouthful of brandy in the belly on a cold afternoon.

Aymeric yawned and stretched. “Forgive me, but I think I shall retire,” he said. “It has been a long day.”

They rose and made their way to their room, Cassetoi remaining contentedly where he was, barely sparing them a second glance. Faces washed and clothing changed, they settled together beneath a mound of blankets. Aymeric nestled himself by Estinien’s side, head cradled against his chest, one arm wrapped loosely around his waist. He dropped off quickly into sleep, and Estinien listened for long moments to the steady rhythm of his breathing as it deepened and slowed. A silver sliver of moonlight shone through a gap between the curtains, falling across Estinien’s left hand where it rested above the covers, and flashed on his finger like a wedding band.

As a droplet of water pools on the end of a leaf tip, swelling into a crystalline bead until its weight can no longer be borne, understanding fell upon him.

For what felt like a very long time he simply stared into the looming darkness of the bedroom ceiling. When he looked down again, the errant stripe of light had shifted, his hand no longer illuminated.

Gently, so as not to wake him, Estinien reached to trace his fingers along the strong angle of Aymeric’s jaw, ran his thumb over the arch of his cheekbone, and stroked the strands of his thick, glossy black hair. He loved this man. He loved him more than he had thought it possible for him to love, loved him so much that he was sick with it, his ribs and throat aching and sore, just to think of it.

He knew. He _knew._ Swallowing, he closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of Aymeric at his side, letting the comfort of his presence lull him to relax. Sleep beckoned, as did an errand, tomorrow.

  
* * * * *

  
Cold feet were not something Estinien was used to having, at least not in the metaphorical sense. Every Ishgardian got used to the literal thing, especially post-Calamity. Normally, Estinien was a very certain sort of man in the sense that, once decided upon a course of action, he did not hesitate to take it.

But hesitating, he was.

_Do you really think he’d say no?_

No, no, that wasn’t it. He wouldn’t. Would he? Of course he wouldn’t. It was just that, well… Estinien had never really anticipated that this sort of thing would happen to him. All his life, he’d assumed… he’d assumed many things, truth be told, and many of them had turned out to be untrue. He supposed that was just the nature of the world to an extent, but, what he felt _now,_ what he wanted _now…_

Aymeric would surely be surprised, at least. His mouth twitched into a smile at the thought. Oh, the look on his face when he saw—

That was the other thing. The gift he needed to commission. He knew exactly what it was to be, and was even quite certain who he’d want to make it, but that was its own can of worms.

Maybe. Maybe not? He didn’t really have any way of knowing, until…

Oh, Halone’s _arse,_ he hated this. Hated feeling like this, all nervous and waffling worse than a café chef on a weekend morning. He needed something to do, something to channel his energy while he thought it all over.

Tending to his armor tended to soothe his mind, and the work was ever in need of doing. So decided, he trotted off to the manor’s little armory on the ground floor. His lance was in its customary place in the rack along the wall, his mail, brais, and greaves on its stand beside it. His gauntlets were stored on the shelf and he made to fetch them first.

One was missing.

Estinien frowned. He was certain they’d both been here, last he’d checked. Annoyance growing, he made a quick search of the nearby shelves in case the missing one had somehow gotten moved, but turned up nothing. This was extremely unusual. Though he was well aware that he was not always inclined toward neatness, he took the maintenance of his arms and armor very seriously, and had never misplaced any of it. The godsdamned thing just had to be here, somewhere. Nonetheless, after a fruitless half hour spent digging through every nook and cranny of the room, Estinien was forced to concede defeat. Wherever his left gauntlet had gone off to, he couldn’t say, and he did not have the patience to continue looking. Crossing his arms, he looked toward the ceiling.

“I may be no astrologian,” he said aloud, “but I can read a sign for what it is.”

He hoped Tiraux wasn’t near enough to catch him talking to himself.

Metaphorically cold though his feet may have been, ‘twas evident that Blessed Halone was not going to let him run from this, not this time. So, instead of his armor, he went to fetch his coat and scarf and boots, simpler things needed to brave the icy streets of Ishgard, and out into those he went, to a destination he had once known well.

  
* * * * *

  
What Estinien sought was a modest yet accomplished goldsmithy located on the east side of Ishgard’s Pillars district, tucked away along a quiet street in the neighborhood behind the formidable manse of House Dzemael. The cheerful, tinny tinkle of a brass bell above the door announced his arrival, a small, snowy whirlwind accenting his entrance. “Welcome to Foutrait & Velique!” the shopkeeper called from behind a glass display case across the room. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Er, no,” Estinien confessed. “When is the next available opening?”

The shopkeeper opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a lovely rich alto before he could.

“For you, ser dragoon, I believe it can be now.”

Estinien turned to find Lady de Foutrait herself, proprietress and head joaillier, smirking at him, arms folded across her chest. She hardly looked as if she’d aged a day since last he’d seen her, warm brown skin betraying nary a wrinkle. Her reddish-tinged hair—now also streaked with gray—was piled on top of her head and her sharp gray eyes twinkled brightly.

“As it has been quite some time since last we met, Ser Estinien,” she continued, “I admit that your visit is quite the surprise. Alberic didn’t send you, did he?”

Sheepishly, Estinien shook his head. It was indeed through his foster-father that he had first met Jeanne de Foutrait, about two decades ago, now. Her younger brother, Octavien, had been a lancer in the Temple Knights alongside Alberic when they were recruits. Though Octavien had never himself made Knight Dragoon, the two had remained friends for many years, and Estinien had found himself a guest at the Foutrait family dinner table nearly any time that he and Alberic had come to the city when he was a child. Now, having seen nearly fifty summers, Ocatvien sat on the advisory board of the Temple Knights, hastened unto his hour of the sheath by a battle injury that had ended his active service years ago. Estinien occasionally saw him at the Congregation, but he would be the first to admit that he had done an incredibly poor job of maintaining any sort of contact with the Foutraits.

“No,” Estinien confessed, “he did not. Though, uh, he sends his regards.”

“Does he even know you are here?” Jeanne teased. At the shake of Estinien’s head, she laughed. “I thought not. Do not trouble yourself over it, I know that visiting old family friends is often not a high priority for children grown.” She gave him a further warm smile. “’Tis nonetheless good to see you. Do come along.”

She beckoned him toward the doorway that led to a private consultation room off the main storefront, and he dutifully followed, more than a little chagrined by Jeanne’s unhesitating generosity, little as he felt he deserved it.

“Now,” she declared, seating herself at the table. “What brings you to my establishment this afternoon?”

Estinien took a deep breath. Here went nothing.

“I’d like to commission a ring,” he said.

“For yourself?”

Estinien shook his head. “No. For… for someone else.”

Jeanne tilted her head to one side, her smile softening to something knowing. “Ah. For Ser Aymeric, then?”

His blush was both furious and immediate, and it was more than a little embarrassing to know his face must be red as a Dzemael tomato. He and Aymeric weren’t secretive about their relationship, but neither were they publicly demonstrative, and Jeanne’s immediate understanding of who the ring was for was an uncomfortable reminder that, indeed, the entire city knew. Well. He supposed they’d know even further, soon.

Slowly, he nodded.

“A fine gift indeed. I assume from one lover to another?”

Estinien’s face grew still hotter, but he managed to nod again. Jeanne folded her hands under her chin and rested her elbows on the table.

“May I also assume this ring to be intended to accompany a proposal of marriage?”

Estinien’s heart nearly stopped in his chest.

“Such things are not done in Ishgard,” he managed to reply, stiffly.

“But they are in Gridania. And Limsa Lominsa.” She raised her eyebrows. “And Ishgard is duty-bound to honor such ties that are forged by the citizens of our fellow nations, as stipulated in the treaty signed when we rejoined the Eorzean Alliance. Thus, your ceremony could be easily held abroad, and you returned here, bound in matrimony, at least by the laws of a sister-state.”

By this point, Estinien was beginning to wonder if it might not be possible to fry a pair of eggs on his cheeks. “How do you know so much about the treaty with the Alliance?”

“I read the morning paper,” Jeanne replied, drily. “And you are far from the first person who has approached me to commission a ring for a beloved of the same gender as themselves, Estinien.”

“Oh.” Of course.

Jeanne turned to fetch a notepad and pen from the cabinet behind her. “I do hope you have given some thought to the design, and to your budget,” she said. “Now, to business.”

They spent the better part of an hour going back and forth, Estinien trying—in his own halting, ineloquent way—to describe what he envisioned, Jeanne patiently sketching out ideas in the notebook, until finally she tilted the page to show him what she’d made of his half-formed notions and he felt the tell-tale little flutter of his heart.

_Yes._

“Aye,” he said at last. “Aye, just like that.”

She smiled. “Good! Now, I shall need to size your fingers—”

“Mine? This is for Aymeric.”

“The esteemed goldsmiths of Foutrait & Velique have long since had the Lord Commander’s ring sizes on file,” she replied, shaking her pencil at him. “However, ‘tis a betrothal, is it not? I should very much like to assume the commission of another set of rings—say, your wedding rings—in the future.”

Estinien flushed again and grunted. “I suppose. I mean.” He harrumphed. “Aye. Aye, fine.”

“Well!” Jeanne pulled a ring size gauge from a drawer in the cabinet. “Your hand, if you would.”

Once she had dutifully sized his fingers and noted all the information down along with her sketches, she gave him a crisp nod.

“I shall set to work on this right away. Do you wish for it to be ready by Starlight?”

“If possible,” Estinien answered.

“‘Tis quite possible,” she confirmed. “It shall be finished before you know it. Now, let us return to the storefront where we can discuss payment with Aurelaut.” She stood and offered him her hand. “It has truly been a pleasure, Estinien. I mean it. ‘Tis good to see you again, after all this time, and an honor to be sought as the ring maker for your betrothal.”

A small knot of emotion formed in the back of Estinien’s throat as he accepted her handshake. “Alberic and Octavien always spoke highly of your craft.”

She smiled. “’Tis good to hear. And Estinien—if you can stand it, I know both myself and my brother would love to host you for a meal again.”

He blinked, her offer unanticipated. The knot in his throat grew tighter, but he nodded.

“Aye,” he replied. “I—that could be nice.”

“Bring the fiancé, too,” she added, and a final flash of heat burned up his cheeks, one more time that afternoon.

  
* * * * *

  
After the consultation with Jeanne, Estinien found himself full enough of nervous energy that he spent the better part of the next hour hopping along the rooflines of Ishgard to calm himself, as he’d frequently done in his younger days. By the time he got home, Aymeric had already returned from work, on schedule for once. He poked his head into the foyer as Estinien was handing off his outer wear to Tiraux, a wide smile lighting his handsome face.

“Estinien! And where did you get off to today?”

He managed to keep his voice and expression neutral as he dusted the last of the snow out of his hair. “’Twould be remiss of me to spoil your Starlight gift now, wouldn’t it?”

Aymeric laughed and held up both of his hands. “Indeed it would. Forgive me my curiosity, my dear.” He encircled his arms around Estinien’s shoulders and pulled him into a soft kiss. “I shall look forward to it, whatever it may be.”

Butterflies beat within Estinien’s stomach, and he gave Aymeric an extra squeeze before releasing him from their embrace. What a gift it surely would be… ah, but there was something else.

“Aymeric,” he said, “earlier today I thought to clean my armor, but I couldn’t find one of my gauntlets. You haven’t seen it, by any chance, have you?”

A strange look crossed Aymeric’s face and he frowned. “Ah, in fact, I do believe I have. Just a moment.”

He headed toward the armory, more quickly than Estinien expected, and he hurried to follow. By the time he got there, he found Aymeric digging around in a canvas bag in the corner—a bag that Estinien was certain had not been there before.

“This one?” Aymeric said. He pulled something out of the bag and held it up. It was indeed Estinien’s missing gauntlet.

He crossed his arms. “Aye, that one. How the hells did it end up in there?”

“I, ah, I pulled several items to bring to the Congregation for cleaning, the other day,” Aymeric answered, “and I fear ‘twas early and I was not quite yet entirely awake.” He cleared his throat. “I must have taken it by accident along with the others. My apologies, Estinien.”

Such a mistake was unusual for Aymeric, but he was a very busy man, and often tired. Estinien shrugged. “No matter. I’m just glad we found it.” He grabbed it from Aymeric’s hand and returned it to the shelf to pair with the other. “Hmph. Much better.”

Aymeric gently entwined his fingers with Estinien’s and tugged him forward, urging him back out of the little storage room. “Can I entice you to a game of Hare and Hounds, my dear?”

“Bad day at the House of Lords, then?” Estinien teased. “Have to trounce a defenseless dragoon to help yourself feel better?”

Aymeric laughed. “Ever do you soothe my weary heart, Estinien,” he replied. “Well?”

How could he refuse? Though Estinien was certain he’d lose—he nearly always did—it was always worth it, to while away his time in the company of his beloved, and, he hoped, soon to be betrothed.

  
* * * * *

  
A week before Starlight, the message arrived. Estinien had warned Tiraux to be on the lookout for it, and to conceal it from Aymeric. Tiraux, consummate servant that he was, had not at all pressed Estinien on the nature of what he was concealing, however, when he flagged Estinien down in the hallway to hand him the envelope, the dragoon fancied he saw a distinct twinkle in the old steward’s eye; a reaction doubtlessly caused by the conspicuous Foutrait & Velique logo stamped onto the stationary. Snatching it out of Tiraux’s hand with a glower, Estinien wondered to himself how in the blazes the smithy ever managed to stay in business with such a lack of discretion in their communications. He’d have to pester Jeanne about it, but such was an entreaty for another day.

Heart in his mouth, he tore open the note and skimmed its contents. The ring was complete.

The shop was a brisk twenty minute walk away, and Estinien did his best to not be too brisk about it—perhaps ludicrously, he felt as if all the city’s eyes were on him, as if each and every passerby could sense his intention merely at a glance.

_The last Azure Dragoon is going to ask the Lord Commander to marry him… can you imagine?_

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. _Well, can you?_ It baffled even him, to an extent, and he was the one on the way to collect an engagement ring! Who would have thought? What would happen if, by some miracle, he could appear before his younger self, say five years gone, and tell him: _you will live. The war will end. Nidhogg will be vanquished. Thordan will be the last Archbishop of Ishgard and you will be its last Azure Dragoon. The things you learn will shake the very foundations of who and what you thought you were, and when the dust settles..._

_You will have Aymeric._

His heart pounded in his chest with the ache of anticipation, sweet and sharp as liquor.

At the ring of the bell above the door Aurelaut looked up from his place at the counter and grinned. “Ah, Ser Estinien!” he called. “Welcome back. Lady de Foutrait is in the workroom, pray, wait while I fetch her.”

Estinien barely had time to react before Aurelaut was off, quickly returning with Jeanne in tow. “Good to see you, Estinien.” She beckoned him toward the counter. “Shall we examine the fruit of my labor?”

He found he could barely speak, so he merely nodded. She placed a small box on the counter top before him and, with a flourish, flipped open the lid.

Estinien nearly forgot to breathe.

It was more beautiful than he had dared hope for. How it shone in the bright lamp light, glinting and gleaming and utterly gorgeous—much like Aymeric himself. Transfixed, Estinien plucked it from where it lay cradled in the velvet, turning it over in his fingers, examining every facet. He was no expert in goldsmithing or gem craft, but even he could see the quality, the precision of the craftsmanship and fine detail.

“’Tis as you imagined, I hope?” Jeanne asked.

“Aye,” he managed to respond. “As I imagined, and more.” He looked up at her, his chest tight with emotion. “Thank you. ’Tis perfect.”

Jeanne smiled. “Good. Ever does that remain what an artisan most wishes to hear. Happy Starlight, Estinien, and—” She paused, eyes sparkling. “—Would it be excessive to say congratulations, in advance?”

  
* * * * *

  
Starlight morning dawned overcast, a bank of dove-gray clouds obscuring the wan winter sun. When the light spilling into the bedroom from the cracks between the curtain panels nonetheless grew too bright to ignore, Estinien grunted, rolled over, and snuggled in closer to Aymeric’s warmth. Today was a holiday after all, and regardless of what the old folk poem might have to say about securing health, wealth, and wisdom, on this day, he possessed absolutely no inclination toward early rising.

He felt Aymeric shift, then one of his strong arms wrapped around Estinien’s shoulder as he placed a kiss on his forehead. “Happy Starlight, my love,” he said, his normally silken voice roughened from sleep. Estinien sighed softly and settled in still closer, his head on Aymeric’s broad chest, listening to the familiar rhythm of his lover’s heartbeat; its quiet drum calling him home to rest as once the drums of the Holy See had called him off to war.

“What shall we have for breakfast?” Aymeric murmured. Estinien smiled at the question, though remained as he was, eyes closed. Aymeric had given his staff the day off, encouraging them instead to spend it with their extended families in the city. Such was nonetheless a profound enough breach of Ishgardian custom that they had all initially protested their small holiday, and far more vigorously than Estinien ever would have anticipated. He had no idea how Aymeric had eventually managed to convince them that he and Estinien were perfectly capable of spending a single day left to their own devices, but convincing staid Ishgardians to forgo tradition and try something new was somewhat of a specialty of Aymeric’s, and so convince them he eventually had. Madame Tausette had nonetheless tried to insist on preparing them a full three-course dinner in advance until Aymeric had reminded her that they were to attend the Fortemps’ annual Starlight party that evening, and would be well fed there. At that, she’d conceded, and merely ensured that the pantry was adequately stocked for their morning meal.

“Lost bread,” Estinien eventually replied. Aymeric ran his hand up Estinien’s bicep and over the curve of his shoulder.

“As you wish, my sweet-toothed dragoon,” he said. “Alas, you shall have to release me if you wish me to cook it for you, Estinien.”

Estinien sighed and grumbled in great exaggerated fashion, but did as he was asked. Together, they made their way downstairs, Cassetoi trotting along at their heels, fluffy tail pointed sky-high. Estinien found the loaf and busied himself cutting generous pieces of it while Aymeric mixed the custard—eggs and cream and sugar, with a dash of sherry and cinnamon for flavor. They joked over nothing and laughed together as they soaked and fried the slices, the rich, sweet scent making Estinien’s mouth water and stomach grumble.

They ate in a modest little room off the courtyard, cozy and relaxed, no rush to do anything or be anywhere. Aymeric had done a fine job on the lost bread; it was creamy and rich with a good crunchy, sugary crust. Estinien doused his with Aymeric’s favorite birch syrup, doubtless to the knight’s own amusement, but if you couldn’t indulge on Starlight, what was the point? Besides, he needed to fortify himself for…

Well, he had always planned to… to ask on Starlight, though before he knew that they’d be alone for the day he’d assumed it would have to wait until their return from the Fortemps’ party, after the staff had gone to bed and they had privacy. Now, though, he could do it… anytime. He wasn’t sure that made it easier.

He swallowed a bite of his breakfast and put it out of his mind. It couldn’t be now, in any case, for the ring was carefully hidden away among his things in their bedroom. Estinien was a man used to following his instinct, and he wasn’t about to stop. The right moment would present itself, he was certain. He needed only to wait.

After their meal, the two of them sat in the parlor drinking their morning tea, enjoying the warmth of the fire and watching lazy flurries of snow drift from the sky to further dust the streets of Ishgard. Cassetoi—well-fed on scraps of fish and allowed a little bowl of cream for his own Starlight breakfast—stretched before the hearth, shamelessly claiming the best of its heat for his own, and the decorated Starlight tree glimmered next to the window, a perfect winter holiday tableau.

Estinien looked over at Aymeric seated next to him, in his simple slacks and a loose but finely-cut black shirt, a match for the mop of hair that he had not bothered to comb out that morning. The ends of it curled wildly around his face, framing his cheekbones, a long forelock pushed haphazardly back out of his striking eyes. As Estinien watched, his lover smiled softly, the corners of his lovely lips pulling ever so slightly upwards, and a twinge tugged in the base of his belly.

_Now._

Aye, ‘twas time. He leaned forward to place his teacup on the table, and opened his mouth to speak.

“Estinien.” Aymeric’s voice stopped him before he had the chance. Blinking, he looked over. Aymeric glanced at him, then averted his eyes, an unusual air of sheepishness about him. “I must confess something to you,” he continued. He fiddled with the empty teacup he still held in his hands, tilting it back and forth. That sort of nervous physicality from Aymeric was very much out of the ordinary, and it immediately captured Estinien’s full attention.

“I had another reason, besides simply wishing for my staff to have some time to themselves, for offering them leave for today.”

Aymeric raised his gaze to meet Estinien’s and smiled softly, a look on his face less like the practiced commander and negotiator that Estinien knew so well, and more akin to that of a fearful young man, suffused with unmistakable love and longing and hope. “There is something I wish very much to ask you,” he said.

“What is it?” Estinien asked, bewildered.

Aymeric reached into his pocket and produced a small, black lacquered box. As he brushed his thumb across the lid, Estinien noticed an incredibly familiar logo design.

_Foutrait & Velique._

His jaw fell open.

“As will doubtlessly be of no surprise to you,” Aymeric went on, seemingly heedless of Estinien’s reaction, “I spent many days attempting to compose a suitable speech, yet realized, in the end, that you prefer no such things.” Again that small, sweet smile. “And so I resolved to simply be direct.” He made to lift the lid of the box.

“My dearest Estinien, will you ma—”

The snort of laughter was out of him before he could prevent it.

Estinien slapped his hand over his mouth as Aymeric’s eyes went wide, stricken. Oh gods above, this was actually happening.

“Aymeric,” he forced himself to say, laughing again. The look of hurt on his lover’s face was unmistakable, and Estinien knew he had to explain before it got any worse. “Aymeric, of course I’ll bloody marry you, oh, _Fury’s tits.”_ He leaned forward, grabbed Aymeric’s cheeks in his hands, and kissed him furiously. “Wait here.”

He hopped off the couch, registering the shift of Aymeric’s expression from upset to baffled. He chose to ignore it as he dashed out of the room, Aymeric calling, “But where are you going, Estinien?” after him. Taking the stairs two at a time, Estinien had to almost forcibly restrain himself from dragoon jumping his way to their bedroom on the second floor, where he aggressively rummaged through his dresser drawer. At last, he fished out his own small, lacquered box, also painted with the logo of Foutrait & Velique, and took a moment to laugh stupidly into his own palm at the sheer ridiculous coincidence of it, before recomposing himself and heading back downstairs.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat as he returned to the parlor and sat back down next to Aymeric.

Then he revealed what he, too, held in his hand.

Aymeric’s eyes darted down to the box, then up to Estinien’s face, then back down again. For once, it seemed, the Lord Speaker had truly lost his words.

“Oh,” he eventually managed.

Both of them stared helplessly at each other for a few moments.

“Estinien,” Aymeric began, “This is… is this… did you… ?”

“Just open it, Aymeric,” Estinien said, practically shoving the little box into his hands. Almost by instinct, he reached to grab the one that Aymeric held, the trade complete before he knew it, and when it dawned on him what they each now possessed, cradled their palms, his eyes burned suddenly, emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

Slowly, almost reverently, Aymeric lifted the ring box’s lid, and audibly gasped.

“Estinien… this is… I—I know not what to say…” He blinked, and his eyes glittered with tears. “’Tis beautiful beyond words.”

“Try it on,” Estinien replied, his voice unexpectedly cracking, going hoarse at the end. He swallowed and looked up at Aymeric, who somehow managed a sly smile and a shake of his head in return.

“I think not,” he said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Not until you open yours, at least, my dear.”

“Oh.” Estinien looked down at the other ring box, now in his hands.

Slowly, heart in his throat, he lifted the lid. Even though he knew what to expect—hells, he’d known the moment he saw Aymeric pull the box out of his pocket—he couldn’t prevent the tears that also filled his eyes at the sight of the exquisite, shining ring nestled therein. Simpler than the one he’d commissioned for Aymeric, it gleamed silvery-white, the metal hammered into myriad facets that reflected light and shadow in beautiful flares and flashes.

“’Tis white gold,” Aymeric said softly. “I know you care naught for jewels or baubles but I wished for something nonetheless more striking than a plain band.” He smiled. “The texture of it makes me think of you.”

“Rough around the edges?” Estinien replied, and Aymeric laughed.

“Aye, such could be said. However… there is something else. Look to its interior.”

Gingerly, Estinien tilted the ring to catch the light, and saw the engraving etched inside the band.

_Though far thee roam,_   
_this heart; thy home._

Estinien raised his head, met Aymeric’s eyes of clearest blue. He’d never much been one for stirring speeches and they both knew it, but just this once he fervently wished that he were, so he could say, fully, exactly how he felt in this moment. Aymeric had to know, he needed to know, and yet Estinien could not even begin to find a way to express something so profoundly moving as the experience of looking upon this elegant little ring, its truest intimacy a secret between the two of them to rest hidden against his skin when worn. In place of words, tears overflowed, streaking down his cheeks. Aymeric leaned forward, one warm hand cradling the back of his neck, and pressed their foreheads together. When Estinien blinked to clear his vision, he could see the matching tear tracks that stained his lover’s face.

“’Tis perfect, Aymeric,” he managed to say, at last. His voice fell near to a whisper. “Thank you.”

“My Estinien,” Aymeric said, and pressed a kiss to his lips. Estinien let his eyes fall shut and leaned into Aymeric’s sweet warmth and reassuring strength. He nearly wished that they could remain like this forever, suspended in this moment, nothing more to matter beyond the two of them.

“Well,” Aymeric said, pulling away. He reached to take Estinien’s hand. “May I?”

Estinien nodded. Aymeric plucked the ring from his grasp.

“I love you,” he said, then slipped it onto the third finger of Estinien’s left hand.

Estinien hiccoughed again with laughter, reminded of the last time he’d worn a ring on that finger. This one, fortunately, fit perfectly, and he was quite sure it would not require any kind of facilitation to remove.

“What amuses you so?” Aymeric asked, and Estinien shook his head, wiping at his eyes.

“Long story,” he replied. “I’ll tell you later.” He reached for the ring he had commissioned for Aymeric. “My turn,” he said softly.

Aymeric’s ring was a striking yellow gold, etched to seem as a four-stranded plait, with an inlaid band of Borel-blue tourmaline in the center. Here and there individual strands of the gold plait crossed the tourmaline, giving the illusion of it too being braided into and along with the gold. The workmanship was such that the seams between the gold and the gemstone were utterly invisible, the entire piece an exquisite little work of art.

This speech, at least, he had rehearsed. He wanted, dearly, to get it right.

“Four strands of gold, enmeshing blue tourmaline,” he said, drawing his finger along the edge of the ring. “Each strand for one of these: mankind, dragon, Ishgard, and Eorzea. And Aymeric the Blue, at the center of it all.” Estinien paused. “’Twas you that brought us together, all of us. ’Tis you, at the heart of it all.”

For a long moment, Aymeric was silent, staring at the ring in Estinien’s hand. Then he looked up, his clear, pale eyes once more replete with tears.

“Not I alone, Estinien,” he insisted. “’Twas not solely I that achieved these things. Without—without so many others, nothing would have…” He trailed off. “Where are you in this, Estinien?”

Estinien smiled. “’Tis I who bestows it upon you,” he said. “You may be the heart of Ishgard, but you are my heart, first and foremost.” He lifted Aymeric’s hand and slid the ring onto his finger. Like Estinien’s had, it fit perfectly. “You may be the great uniter, but with this, I unite _us.”_

“Estinien—” Aymeric began.

“Or at least, I _would have,”_ Estinien interrupted. “If you hadn’t bloody well gone out and also bought me a ring!”

They stared at each other for a moment, then Estinien felt the corner of his mouth begin to twitch, and Aymeric coughed softly, and then they both dissolved into laughter, entwined in embrace and trading kisses until there was naught left to do but lean tenderly together, gently wondrous, bathed in a haze of love and fond affection.

Aymeric slid his left hand over Estinien’s, arranging their fingers so the rings rested side by side.

“What a Starlight,” he said. “And there still remains the Fortemps’ party…”

Estinien groaned. “ _Everyone’s_ going to notice, aren’t they?”

“Better to get it all over with at once, I suppose, and save us having to contact them all individually. Lords Edmont and Artoirel and Emmanellain, Alberic and Lucia, Handeloup and his family…”

“By the _Fury._ Can you imagine what they’ll all say when they find out we both tried to propose at the _same time?”_

“I wish not even to think about it.”

“We’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Indeed, we shall not.”

Estinien snorted and laid his head against Aymeric’s shoulder, Aymeric’s arm around his waist. An insistent meow drew his attention moments before Cassetoi saw fit to leap onto the couch beside him and shove his furry head beneath Estinien’s lax left hand.

“If you insist, you little bugger,” he said, stroking the grumpy cat’s back. As he did, his new ring flashed and gleamed in the light, and it sent a little thrill racing through him to see it. He supposed that in time he would grow used to it, but for now, its novelty would serve as an exciting reminder. As a promise, and a pledge.

Something suddenly occurred to Estinien, and he sat up fast enough that Cassetoi yowled in protest at the disturbance and shot off toward the corner of the room, doubtless to claw the embroidery out of a curtain, or some such petty revenge.

“The missing gauntlet!” he exclaimed. “Aymeric, you took the godsdamned thing to the goldsmith to get my ring size!”

The slow smile that spread over Aymeric’s face was guilty as a boy who’d been caught with his hand in a jar of sweets. “Aye,” he confessed. “Lady de Foutrait said she could make a cast from the interior and use it to get your size. Truth be told, she was done faster than I expected, and lucky am I ‘twas so, for the same day she sent her message, what did you do but ask after that very gauntlet!”

Estinien shook his head. “She was done with it because ‘twas also the day I commissioned _your_ ring, and she took my sizes while I was there.”

For a moment, they both contemplated the sheer ludicrousness of the situation, before bursting into laughter again.

“She told me she knew you when you were a boy,” Aymeric eventually said. “I knew Ser Ocatvien had served with Alberic, but I had not realized they were that close.”

“Aye,” Estinien replied. “I haven’t exactly been good about keeping in touch, but Jeanne did say she wished to have us for dinner, sometime.”

“That sounds lovely,” Aymeric said. “Perhaps we can arrange something after Heavensturn.”

“Aye,” Estinien agreed. A sense of surreality settled around him. He… he was _engaged._ To Aymeric. How very strange. Wonderful, exhilarating… and strange.

“Happy Starlight, husband-to-be,” Aymeric said. Estinien turned his head and buried his face into the curve of Aymeric’s neck.

“Gods, it will take a while to get used to being called that,” he replied.

“Take your while, then,” was Aymeric’s response, and Estinien could hear the smile in it, hear the deep affection layered within the words. “For by the time we are married, it shall just be _husband,_ and I shall call you by it all the rest of my life.”

Estinien sat up, emotion once more clogging his throat and burning behind his eyes. He took Aymeric’s face in both his hands and held him there, tips of their noses practically touching. “The rest of our lives,” he said. He swallowed. “Aye.”

They kissed then, sweetly as the very first time, years ago, and once again settled to rest against each other in tender silence. The fire crackled in its hearth, the wind gusted by the windows, and the cat snored softly from somewhere within the room. And all the future lay before them, into which they would go, together.

**Author's Note:**

> The title takes after an old French Christmas carol, a sweet rendition of which can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6dH7Oy5QpTg
> 
> I happen to know that the giftee in question is soft for wedding-related stuff, hence the choice of plot.
> 
> Special thanks to my dear friends Crow (@unlimitedblack), Snacks (@snack_road), and Cat (@catulla) for help designing the rings as well as proofreading and suggestions!


End file.
